


Walking Her Home

by JulyStorms



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 14:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3450491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulyStorms/pseuds/JulyStorms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern Day AU. “Well, Petra, when you get to be my age,” he couldn’t see her roll her eyes but knew she was considering it deeply, “getting outta bed in the morning is where the headache starts, and then I’ve gotta come all the way out here just to see my wife…”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking Her Home

**Author's Note:**

> Children characters borrowed from [pollyannaisms](http://pollyannaism.co.vu/) and [hairjel](http://hairjel.tumblr.com/).

“Good morning, Mr. Bossard.” The greeting from the front desk girl was the only one he received upon his arrival. To her chipper expression, he only frowned and waved a shaky hand; it was her job to greet people whether she liked them or not.

Petra’s room was bright as always. After he shuffled inside and closed the door, he moved straight for the windowsill, for the vase sitting there; he plucked out the wilting flowers, tossed them into the garbage, and replaced them with fresh ones.

She didn’t argue with him.

She didn’t say, _“Gosh, Auruo, those were perfectly fine; why couldn’t you just get another vase you big grump?”_

She didn’t say anything.

He answered, anyway: “They’re wilting and you know it, you old nag. Now you have fresh flowers—and before you could nag at me to get ‘em, too. You should be happy.”

Auruo talked to himself a lot—had been, it seemed, since he’d had to put Petra ‘away.’ It almost killed him to do it, but she’d insisted, and the kids had supported her decision, and he’d been outnumbered, and _really_ it was for the best, because he wasn’t half the man he’d once been and—

“I s’pose you want all the latest gossip.” He sat in the chair next to her bed with a sigh, and took her hand, held it between both of his; he even leaned forward so that he wouldn’t disturb her. “Well, too fuckin’ bad; I don’t have your kinda gossip.”

“Liar.” The word left her lips, slow and airy—like a breath.

He grinned. “Yeah, I’m lyin’ to ya. Gotta keep you on your toes, right? You’ve got all these kids here runnin’ ‘round catering to your every little whim, huh? Well, not me.”

There was a soft chuckle from her. “You’re grouchy today.”

“Well, Petra, when you get to be my age,” he couldn’t see her roll her eyes but knew she was considering it deeply, “getting outta bed in the morning is where the headache starts, and then I’ve gotta come all the way out here just to see my wife…”

“Didn’t even get a good morning kiss, though.”

“You want one?”

“Mm.”

“Is that a yes or a no? Jeez, nag, I can’t read your mind.”

There was a long pause and a deep breath, followed by: “I don’t know if I want one or not.”

“Yeah? Well, you just think about it for a while, then.”

She did; ten minutes passed before she said, “Kiss me good morning, would you?”

It was almost a ritual: he kissed her forehead; she complained. He kissed her cheek; she complained. He kissed the corner of her mouth; she complained. Then came the real kiss, soft and meaningful.

“You know what?” he asked.

“What?”

“You look as sexy as you did when I married you. How’s that possible?”

It usually made her laugh, but this time the only thing that laughed were her eyes. That was when he knew he was losing her.

There had been close calls before, over the years. The stroke, ten years earlier, or her third pregnancy, which had had him frantic with worry like he’d never been about anything in his entire life.

“You’ll always be a babe,” he managed to say, one hand still holding hers; the other brushed her hair out of her eyes.

He sat back down again and took her hand with his free one, too, took her hand and held on because for some reason when her fingers were wrapped around his, his hands didn’t shake as much.

“Tell me the news,” she murmured after a while.

“Eh,” he sighed. “Peter’s whining ‘bout his kids getting’ on his nerves. I told him that it serves him right; justice for all those years he was a little teenage brat for us… Gunther’s not doing so well; he signed one of those things…you know, where they don’t bring you back if you die or whatever…”

Her fingers gently squeezed his. “Anything nice?”

“Oh, yeah—tons of nice shit. I just like to tell you the depressing stuff first to get it all over with. Aurora’s oldest is graduating Kindergarten next month… Flint declares he’ll never have kids, but we both know that’s a crock of shit. Elliot’s youngest said his first word last night…”

“What was it?”

“He claims it was ‘dada’ but Sandra says that the kid really meant ‘dodo’—and y’know I’m not sure what to make of any of it.”

“Marius?”

“Made it to France last night. Sent a picture through the Internets or whatever. Peter got it up on the computer, but the printer wouldn’t work. He says it’s because it’s ancient but y’know I just _bought_ that thing.”

“Ten years ago,” Petra murmured.

“Yeah, well, what’s ten years to people like us, huh? Jeez—technological bullshit makin’ me replace perfectly good shit every other second. Ugh. I hate it. And I hate this chair, too. It makes my back hurt.”

“Hm…yet you still sit there…”

“I’m willing to endure some major discomfort to hold my wife’s hand.”

“Sure.”

“It’s true, nag. The suffering I go through for your sake is incredible.”

“I bet it is.”

“Whatever. You tired?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll wake you when they bring you some horrible shit to eat, then. Get some sleep.”

* * *

 

He spent the in between hours holding her hand and just being quiet. Silence between them had never been uncomfortable, and it still wasn’t—not really, though it _had_ changed. There was a tense element to it, and Auruo knew exactly what it was: it was waiting.

He was sitting in this goddamn chair waiting for Petra to die, and he knew it. He knew it, and _that_ was what he hated: not the chair, though it did make his back hurt.

But like everything else that had been flung their way over the years, he would deal with it his way: with a scowl and a lot of complaining. He hoped it could cover up the fact that he was hurting.

* * *

 

After breakfast, Petra napped again. After lunch, she took another nap. She was always sleeping. Sometimes he wished they’d just say it, wished a doctor’d come up to him and say that she could go home. He knew that going home at this point meant she’d be going home to die, but God, he’d rather she die at home than here in this fake-cheery room with flowers that he picked out of her garden.

Peter, the only one of their children who lived close enough, tried to keep him out of Petra’s flowerbeds, but Peter had his own life—his own _family_ —and Auruo’s hands shook, now, and his knees creaked, and there were things about him that were just _faulty_ …but it was a disgustingly nice source of comfort to him: to kneel down in that dirt and pull away offending little plants that thought they had the right to overrun the tulips and daffodils and rose bushes.

It hurt to see those flowers on the windowsill of a nursing home room instead of on their kitchen table where the afternoon sun fell across it all and made Petra’s favorite vase cast stupid little rainbows all over the walls.

* * *

 

When darkness fell, he woke her for dinner, but she hardly touched it. Like Gunther, who had recently signed a DNR, Petra had signed one months earlier. It had pained him to see her sign the paper, her handwriting still the same as it always was, but he understood. If he was as weak as she was…well, maybe he wouldn’t want machines to bring him back from death, either.

When the barely-touched dinner was cleared away, he complained about his back and scooted into her bed with her; age had only made him bonier, and since Petra had gotten really sick, she’d lost some weight. They both fit on her narrow bed. He took her hand once they were settled.

“You tired again?” he asked.

“Mmhm.”

“Regular kinda tired, or the other kind?” He had never mentioned it before; he hadn’t wanted to know the answer. But suddenly he needed to know.

Her head turned slightly, her short hair falling in her eyes; he liked her hair short—had always liked it short, because it wasn’t long enough to tie back fully, and there was always an excuse to touch it right there in front of him.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

He ignored it. Ignored it and ran his thumb against the back of her hand. “Y’know,” he said, tucking her head against his to kiss her hair, “you remember our first date?” She didn’t answer, but he continued anyway; of course she remembered; her memory was ten times what his was. She remembered where the stupid shit was that he could never find around the house, too. “I had such a stupid crush on you, and I couldn’t believe you agreed to go out with me… Eighteen years old and your daddy still thought you needed to be home by—what was it? Nine o’clock? Jeez. That was so dumb, but I thought you were so amazing that you were worth a very early and rather short date. Well, I wasn’t wrong. And I had you home on time. Hell yeah I had you home on time. It was right after dark, I remember, ‘cause you grabbed my hand like a little sneak. We walked all the way up to your porch from the theater that way. Then you spouted some shit ‘bout how you had a lovely time and we should do it again soon—and you kissed me on the cheek and fled into your house like a chickenshit. I was in fuckin’ love with you for that. Did I ever say that? Well, it’s true. Still in love with you, nag. Funny how so many people we know got divorced ‘n shit and we made it so long. Why d’you think that is, huh? No, it ain’t ‘cause you’re a horrible nag…or maybe it is. You had a problem you nagged about it. Guess that kept us going ‘cause there weren’t angry secrets. Somethin’ you did drove me crazy I told you and we’d argue about it for a few seconds and then there’d be an understanding. Nobody wants to talk anymore. Nobody wants to show weaknesses. We figured it out. We did good. Most of the time, anyway.”

The only thing that told him that Petra was still with him was the brush of her eyelashes against his check.

He kept going, though—kept going because he wanted to just talk. People were always quiet when others were about to die, and Auruo hated it. Hell no; why should he be quiet? Shouldn’t he say all the shit that mattered? Say it ten, twenty, a thousand times?

Fuck that shit about being quiet. Things were quiet when you were dead.

“Yeah, that first date, though. You had that yellow sundress with the white sweater-thing and a band in your hair with a flower on it, a big puffy yellow one to match your dress. You looked great. I looked like shit, remember? Had that awful shirt I borrowed from my papa, and Maman pressed it just perfect—my trousers, too. Jeez, I looked like a little boy tryin’ to be a man. I guess I was, though, huh? Wanted to impress you so much. You couldn’t see my face in the dark, y’know, but I blushed like a stupid tomato when you grabbed my hand like that. I thought about holding your hand at the movie and couldn’t do it because you were watching that show so intently. I couldn’t tell you what the show was about; I didn’t pay any attention at all. I remember how you looked though, watchin’ it, shoveling popcorn into your mouth at the speed of light. Fuckin’ _enchanting_ , Petra. Really. Didn’t think I could like you any more than I already did and the next thing I knew I wanted to marry you and never let your stupid naggy self go.”

A moment of silence passed.

“I still don’t.”

He swallowed, brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.

“But I will, ‘cause I know how life fuckin’ works, and it’s not fair, you know? But I guess it is this time. What if I died before you, huh? Who’d come and visit you every single stupid day for hours and grumble at you? You’d get lonely, probably. So yeah, I guess it’s okay for you to go first. What do you think of that, huh?”

Auruo swallowed again, turned his head to press his lips against her face.

“Well,” he said, voice not quite steady anymore, “I had a fuckin’ lovely time, Petra. We should do it again soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry.
> 
> Slightly based off of [the song by the similar name](http://youtu.be/_ODSx0UfAcA) sung by Mark Schultz.
> 
> This is dedicated to Ruth and her husband. Ruth was my gramma's roommate for a month or so in 2008. Ruth was 87 and her husband, who was just over 100 years old, came to see her every day. He sat there all day even though Ruth hardly ever woke up, and he did two things: watched his wife sleep and held her hand.
> 
> A DNR is a Do Not Resuscitate form that you fill out; if you sign it, it means you don't want revived if you die. The first thing my gramma said to my mother and I upon being resuscitated was a tearful, "Why didn't you just let me die?" She signed a DNR that night.


End file.
